The Winter Children

by Lulu Taylor

  ‘You take her other side,’ he directs, panting a little. ‘We can both do it if we lift together.’

  Somehow they manage to hoist Alice up, supporting her with their arms beneath hers. Her head lolls a little and she is a near dead weight, so they half carry, half drag her across the snow to the caravan, and then up the steps and through the open door. Once inside, Donnie lowers Alice gently to the floor and looks over her at Julia.

  ‘You’re going to have to do it,’ he says. ‘You’re a woman. You know about these things.’

  ‘I don’t know anything!’ cries Julia in a panic.

  ‘You know more than I do.’

  ‘What about Roy? Where is he? His wife has had children, he’ll know what to do.’

  Donnie looks grim. ‘First off, he’s lying in his bed through that door and he’s flat-out drunk. He’s had near on a bottle of whiskey tonight; he wouldn’t wake if it was the Second Coming itself. And second, if he was awake, he’d be useless. No man sees the birth of his children, it’s not right. We need a woman, and you’re it.’

  Alice starts to moan again. The force of her pain silences them both: they can only witness it, watching the animal nature of it, and the startling way her body won’t be deviated or stopped. It has a job to do, and nothing will prevent it now that it has begun.

  Donnie and Julia look at each other. ‘You’d better get her things off,’ he says. ‘The baby is coming.’

  It’s the beauty of it that strikes her the most. She’s always imagined that childbirth must be ugly, but it isn’t at all. In the light of the lantern, Alice’s belly is velvety smooth, huge and ripe. She lies on the old blanket that Donnie puts down for her, and, clutching at Julia’s hand, she allows herself to surrender to the mysterious forces possessing her. She never screams, but moans and wails with her mouth closed as pain grips her in ever closer pulses, and yet, she somehow relaxes too, as though she knows that she can deliver the baby, now she is sheltered and cared for. Donnie walks around the tiny space of the caravan, most of it taken up with the two girls, occasionally looking but mostly trying not to, as though he wants to preserve Alice’s modesty, even though she is lying naked on the floor, her belly rising and clenching with the force of the contractions.

  Julia doesn’t know how long they are there. It could be one hour or four. Time seems to concertina, shrunk by the patterns of Alice’s labour, the wracks of pain that come and go, closer and closer together, until she is squeezing her eyes shut, her mouth wide, her hands painfully tight on Julia’s, pushing down and down.

  Julia looks at the junction of Alice’s thighs, where everything is red and stretched and unrecognisable as any part of anatomy she has ever seen. It is so alien that it doesn’t strike her as obscene or disgusting; it simply is what it is, and in the middle of the work it can and must do. Then she sees it. The curve of a skull coming down through the dark red orifice and out into the world. It halts its progress as Alice gathers her strength for the next onslaught and then, as she pushes, the little head presses further out.

  ‘It’s almost here! Oh, well done, Alice, well done! Another push, another push!’ Julia has washed her hands and now she reaches down, ready to take hold of the child when it emerges. Donnie hovers nearby, tension all over his face, expectation in his eyes.

  Alice allows a cry to escape as she pushes down again, and suddenly it happens more quickly than Julia can anticipate. With a sudden slither and a gush of water and blood, the body slides out of Alice’s and into Julia’s waiting hands. It is tiny and perfect, a thick purplish cord connected to its small round belly and then wrapped around its neck, where its face is perfectly still and blue.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Olivia is quietly furious.

  ‘What was going on in there?’ she says, spooning food into Bea’s mouth. She has no patience with her daughter’s attempts to feed herself today, but Bea doesn’t like being deprived of the fun and is whining and resisting.

  ‘Nothing,’ says Dan. He is feeding a more compliant Stan, who likes being fed and is opening his mouth for the spoonfuls of rice and stew.

  ‘She had her hand on your leg!’

  ‘She put it there for a moment. It doesn’t mean anything. You know what she’s like, touchy-feely and all the rest of it. Besides, if you’d give me a chance to explain, I’d tell you that I’ve actually asked her to go.’

  ‘You have?’

  Dan nods. His expression is cross and sulky. ‘Yes.’

  ‘And what did she say?’ Olivia asks, diverted from the source of her anger and fear. The sight of Francesca and Dan on the sofa together has shaken her. It has given her the unpleasant notion that something is going on between them of which she knows nothing.

  ‘She was about to tell me when you came in. But I think she’s going to give it some thought.’ He shoots her a wry look. ‘You never know, we might get our lives back sooner than you think.’

  Francesca has left them to it, perhaps sensing that the atmosphere is less than welcoming. She is normally keen to offer a hand when it comes to feeding the children and positively relishes the bedtime routine, the one that floors Olivia every evening: the supper, the cleaning up, the baths, stories and sleep rituals that the twins like to draw out for as long as possible.

  ‘Can you ask her again?’ Olivia urges. The idea of life without Cheska, even if it means less help with the childcare, seems very appealing. It’s been too much and too long. And, now she thinks about it, too intense.

  Dan sighs irritably again, but says, ‘All right. I don’t want to get her back up, that’s all.’

  ‘I’m sure you won’t. She is such an old friend after all. And, according to you, she might still have a sweet spot for you.’ She looks up quickly to see how he will take this little needle.

  He shoots her a look. ‘I didn’t say that. I said that years ago she might have had a little crush on me. She’s just a friend now. Okay?’

  ‘Okay, okay . . . Bea, please, another mouthful for me. Please.’ She slides more rice into Bea’s mouth and changes the subject. ‘I thought I might go to London actually. I sent an email to my agent to see if I could have a chat with him about some future projects and ideas I’ve got.’

  ‘All right. If you think it will help. When will you go?’

  With a little yellow spoon, Olivia stirs the stew in the bowl she is holding and bites back a comment. It’s always been like this. Her work has always been considered less than his because she didn’t wear a suit and leave the house at 8 a.m. every day and stride off importantly to an office. It didn’t bring in as much money as his, and it didn’t have a regular pay cheque. And even though it was writing, which he rather admired, it was just garden writing, nothing intellectual. Not like his. But it was still her work and it helped to provide for the family. Now, in fact, it is all they have coming in. She wonders suddenly if Dan is jealous. She’s been a moderate success, with her gardening books selling well enough to bring in some money each year. And she has an agent in London – a fairly useless one, but still – and now that Dan is embarking on a writing project, perhaps he suddenly and unexpectedly feels inferior. She thinks of Andrew, her agent, in his office in a tall building near Piccadilly Circus. She sent him an email today and he replied at once, somewhat to her surprise, offering to take her for lunch any day this week. He has an unusually quiet diary and can accommodate her whenever.

  She says, ‘I thought I’d go down the day after tomorrow. Is that okay?’

  ‘Fine with me.’ He shrugs. ‘Whatever you want. I suppose Cheska can look after the kids, if she’s still here.’

  She glances over at him, cross and resentful. She has given him all these hours to write a play that she hasn’t yet laid eyes on and which appears to be no closer to being finished than it was when they arrived here. Now it seems as though he can’t even be bothered to look after the children himself.

  The image of him and Francesca close together on the sofa comes into her mind. Should I leave
them alone? she wonders. Then she pulls herself up. I’m being stupid. Dan has been off Cheska for ages. There’s no way he wants anything to happen. Then she thinks, But what about Cheska? What does she want?

  She pushes the thought away. ‘All right. I’ll book my train ticket.’ Then another thought crosses her mind. She will send another email tonight, one she’s been meaning to send for ages. Perhaps it will help to answer the questions turning over in her mind.

  Two days later, Olivia waits in the reception area of her agent’s office. It is not a glitzy building and she has to climb three flights to get to his floor, but there is something undeniably glamorous about it. In the small entrance area are bookshelves with the recent work of the company’s clients neatly displayed: picture books, paperbacks and weighty, serious hardbacks. There’s nothing by her, of course. Her last book was too long ago to be out on show.

  Behind the desk, a friendly girl, who has provided Olivia with water, taps away at her keyboard and, without warning, answers calls through her headset. The first time this happened, Olivia thought she was being spoken to and when the girl said, ‘How can I help you?’, she started to reply, saying, ‘I’m fine, thank you, the water is lovely,’ only to have the girl talk over her with, ‘He’s in a meeting right now. Can I ask him to call you back?’ and then she guessed. It was embarrassing.

  So now she keeps quiet and hopes it won’t be too long before Andrew is ready to see her. It is a relief to be away from home. The atmosphere has been distinctly odd, ever since she walked in on Francesca and Dan on the sofa. Something about Francesca is distant and yet gleeful, while Dan seems both cross and on edge, as though something might set him off at any time. She can’t understand why things seem to have changed, when they were all so harmonious just a short time before. It’s the price of living with people, she thinks. The strain starts to tell in the end. Maybe marriage is really just finding someone you can bear to live with full-time. Even then, it’s hard.

  Dan drove her to the station this morning, still mulish and silent. It’s the side of him she likes the least, when he decides to inflict his bad mood on her but won’t tell her what caused it.

  ‘Will you be okay today?’ she asked, unable to shake the habit of concern for his welfare even when he’s being sulky.

  ‘Of course.’ He sighed as he turned the car into the station car park and looked for somewhere to park.

  ‘And you know where I left the twins’ lunch? In the green tub on the bottom shelf of the fridge. Three minutes in the microwave, stir and leave for a minute. Check it’s not too hot before they eat it.’

  He shot her an annoyed look. ‘I know. I’ve done their lunch before. We’ll all be fine.’

  ‘At least Cheska will be out of your way. The builders are going to start bulldozing the old pool, aren’t they? She’ll be overseeing that, I suppose.’ She tried to sound cheerful. ‘Let’s hope we can’t hear it when they start.’

  Dan grunted.

  ‘I’d better get my train,’ she said. She leaned over to kiss his cheek, and then climbed out of the car and that was that. She can only hope he’s snapped out of his mood by the time she gets back.

  I’ll go shopping in Piccadilly after this, she thinks, and get him something nice as a present, to make up. I hate it when things are chilly between us.

  The girl at the desk suddenly says, ‘Yes, I’ll send her right in.’ Then she looks over at Olivia and says brightly, ‘Andrew will see you now. First office on the left down the hall.’

  Andrew is happy to see her. He’s changed a little since they last met, with markedly less hair, but he is a friendly, talkative man with a seemingly ceaseless interest in his business. They chat in his office, catching up with what’s happened over the years since the twins arrived, and then he takes her out to a brasserie down a back street, not far from the bustle and grinding traffic of Piccadilly Circus. They weave through groups of tourists who stare up at the advertisements for Sony and McDonald’s as though this is what they have come to London to see.

  Lunch is very pleasant, the kind she hasn’t had for a long time. She eats a game terrine with fresh French bread and cornichons, and then a duck breast cooked with prunes and Armagnac, served with pureed potato and green beans. It’s hearty, traditional stuff, and Andrew orders a bottle of very good red wine to go with it. She drinks two glasses and enjoys the light-headed feeling. It seems so decadent to be here, thinking only of her own pleasure, when at home Dan is doing the usual demanding routine of looking after two small children.

  I will definitely get him a present, she thinks, feeling even more expansive after the wine. Something really nice. Something he really likes.

  ‘So tell me about your possible projects,’ Andrew says, turning to business as their plates are cleared. ‘There’s no reason why we can’t get you a decent deal for a book if you’ve got an idea. The last did well. You’re in a good place.’

  ‘Well . . .’ She feels a little shy, but she begins by talking about the research she did in Argentina.

  ‘I like that idea,’ Andrew remarks. ‘There’s not a massive amount of mileage in it as a how-to book but it would make a lovely coffee table piece. That’s a definite maybe.’

  Olivia feels more confident. ‘And then there’s this house we’re living in right now,’ she begins, and starts to tell him all about Renniston. His ears prick up at once, and when she starts telling him about William and the animal hedges, he’s beaming all over his face.

  ‘This is a wonderful story. And stately homes . . . well, we all know the very healthy market for those. A garden restored. A garden saved,’ he corrects himself. ‘One man’s labour of love. A garden through history.’ He nods. ‘You could really do something with that. Do you have any photos?’

  Olivia brings out her phone and scrolls through some of the pictures on it. She’s taken some of the cottage garden and a few of the Hall gardens. There are plenty of the children too, which naturally distract them from the garden project.

  ‘Who’s this lady?’ Andrew asks, pointing at a picture of Francesca holding Bea, the two of them smiling into the camera. ‘Is that your sister?’

  Olivia laughs. ‘No. That’s Cheska . . . I mean, Francesca Huxtable. She’s the owner of the house actually. I’d need to get her permission to do a book on it, but I’m sure that won’t be a problem. Why did you think she’s my sister?’

  ‘It’s only because of the resemblance.’

  ‘With me?’ she asks, surprised. She’s never thought they look at all alike.

  ‘No, not with you. With the little girl. They’ve got the same colour eyes.’

  ‘Have they?’ She bends over the phone for a closer look.

  ‘Yes. And they’re both dark.’

  ‘Oh. Yes. So they are. Well, Bea’s not really that dark, it’s just the light. But I can see why you would think that.’

  Andrew sits back and picks up his wine glass. ‘But as you’re not related, it’s obviously a coincidence,’ he says. ‘After all, you’re their mother.’

  ‘Yes,’ Olivia says slowly. ‘Yes, I am.’

  Afterwards, when she and Andrew have said their goodbyes and she’s promised to send him some material, she begins to walk down Piccadilly. Her happy mood over lunch has evaporated, although she is not entirely sure why. Still, she is determined to get Dan a present. First she walks into a gentleman’s outfitters, a purveyor of country clothing, and spends a while browsing through the ties decorated with pictures of pheasants, and the plus-fours and plus-twos that look as though they have come from a P. G. Wodehouse story. She buys a pair of thick socks that she thinks will help combat the cold floors of the cottage, but nothing else is suitable. Dan isn’t a country gent and isn’t about to start wearing checked shirts and red cord trousers now.

  Out on the street, she gazes into shopfronts and thinks about what he might like. She mustn’t be too extravagant but she has enough money to get him something nice. Maybe a box of chocolates from Fortnum’s. Then
she checks her watch with a gasp. She’ll be late. She almost forgot her other appointment. She puts Fortnum’s out of her mind and hurries on towards the Patisserie Valerie on the edge of St James. As she gets closer, she sees a familiar figure sitting at a table in a window, the curly head bent over a magazine, and she rushes in.

  ‘Claire, hello, sorry I’m late!’ She drops her bag and sits down heavily in the chair opposite.

  Claire looks up with a smile. ‘Don’t be silly, you’re not.’ She leans over for an embrace. ‘It’s lovely to see you, Olivia. It’s been far too long! I’m so glad you emailed me. So, how on earth are you?’

  Olivia has worried that the meeting with Claire would be awkward after all this time, but it isn’t. In fact, it’s lovely to see her. They talk quickly for a few minutes, while the waitress takes Olivia’s order and then brings tea. Then Olivia starts to describe everything that’s happened lately and, for the second time, she pulls out her phone and shows her favourite pictures of Bea and Stan to Claire, ones that don’t feature Francesca.

  ‘They’re two and a half now,’ she says proudly.

  Claire looks up at her, her eyes sparkling with tears. ‘I’m so happy for you, love. I remember what it was like for you in the early days, when it all looked so hopeless. I always prayed it would come right for you and Dan, and it has. They’re beautiful. Doesn’t Stan look like you? I mean, he’s got Dan’s colouring but there’s a definite look of you.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Olivia says with a soft laugh. ‘They’re IVF but not with my eggs. We had to use a donor in the end.’

  ‘Really?’ Claire colours lightly. ‘I didn’t know. How silly of me. I really did think he looks like you.’

  ‘Good! Maybe he’s getting some of my expressions just by being round me.’

  Claire hesitates, then says, ‘Do you mind me asking . . . what’s it like? Having children who you know aren’t related to you? I hope I don’t sound like a buffoon, but I can’t help wondering.’